What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love? - Sylvia Plath

What did my fingers do before they held him?

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time...

I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.

"I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. — from "Elm", written 19 April 1962"